Son and Heir
by Prisoner 24601
Summary: Co-authored by Dinah Lance. When Revan left for the Unknown Regions, she left both her mate and child behind. But the son of an ex-Dark Lord and Mandalore is a valuable prize - one that Revan's Republic family hasn't given up on, igniting an intergalactic custody battle Mandalorian style. Chapter Six: Carth and Bastila discover Mandalore's kidnapped son is on Courscant.
1. For Her Own Good

A/N: This multi-chapter story is one of a series of Canderous/Revan fics co-written with Dinah Lance. Chronologically it fits between "Contingency Plans" and "Reforged," but hopefully it is able stand on its own.

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**Prologue: For Her Own Good**

Thick silence shrouded the opulent study as Ja'Taren Allonis Revan studied the three Jedi sitting across from him.

As a rule, Ja'Taren had no use for the Jedi Order. They were egotistical meddlers in galactic politics and economies that they simply did not understand. The few times he'd run across them in the creation of his corporate empire, they had cost him a small fortune due to their judgmental interference.

When they'd approached him as a young man more than forty years ago and offered him training, he'd merely laughed and told them he had better things to do than join a useless religious order. When they'd approached him years later, offering to take his son for training, he'd been insulted that they'd think he'd just hand over his only child. When they'd approached him two years ago about his only grandchild, he'd nearly had them physically thrown out of his penthouse.

Now they were here by his request. Which was why it was not surprising when Master Vandar finally broke the hostile silence and said, "Your comm call came as a surprise. The last time you were here you made yourself very clear that you would not allow us to train Minuet."

Ja'Taren steepled his long brown fingers. "Things have changed since then."

Master Vrook grumbled, "I bet they have."

Before Ja'Taren could snap a response that would put that sanctimonious bastard in his place, Master Zhar spoke. "It would help if we understood what has happened with your granddaughter to change your mind."

Ja'Taren almost laughed out loud at the "if." Between his family's Force-sensitive bloodline and the fortune and power that would make him a beneficial ally, he didn't believe for one minute that they would deny his granddaughter.

"Minuet has always been a handful, but over the last few years she has grown out of control in her behavior. She has been kicked out of the most exclusive boarding schools on both Alderaan and Coruscant. The ones that remain cannot be persuaded to take her no matter how much money I offer." He shook his head. "It's as though she finds out what the rules are and systematically breaks every single one of them. I'm fairly certain that instead of hiding her misconduct, she goes out of her way to make sure she gets caught."

Minuet was so calculated in her troublemaking that he would have almost been proud of her craftiness if the last four times hadn't cost him key business deals. She had an uncanny knack of finding out the worst possible moment to pull him away from his business affairs with another outrageous stunt that demanded his immediate attention.

"A cry for attention, then?" Vandar asked, his ears unfurling thoughtfully.

"Most likely," Ja'Taren agreed. "My son is…" _a disappointment, a loser, a waste of space_, "a spice addict that would rather spend all of his time shooting up and racing speeders. My daughter-in-law won't even take the time out of her social schedule to spend ten minutes with the girl." He sighed. "And I run a corporate empire that spans across thirty-five star systems. I don't have the time to spend with her that I should."

Vrook's bushy eyebrows bunched together. "So now you want us to clean up your mess? Why should we take this child that's been a menace to other institutions? Why would we want to subject our peaceful Order to that?"

"Are you afraid of one little girl?" Ja'Taren snarled, temper fraying. "I thought that the power of the almighty Force was greater than star carriers, global economies and governments—anything us mere mortals could ever hope to achieve."

Vandar opened his three-fingered hand in a conciliatory gesture. "It is true that the Force is powerful. That is why we must be very careful whom we take for training."

Zhar's eyes glossed over as he studied a cabinet across the room. "She is… full of much anger."

"And what happens if you don't?" Ja'Taren pointed out. "You told me before that she's one of the most powerful Force sensitives you'd ever seen. What if the Sith find her when she's older and use that anger and hatred for themselves?" From the looks on Zhar's and Vandar's faces, he knew he'd scored a major point. "You can make sure that doesn't happen by training her yourselves."

Unmistakable sorrow twisted Zhar's face. "There is no guarantee that won't happen. Many of our Order have fallen in the past."

"But the odds would be in her favor, right?" When they didn't answer he figured that they were merely dragging this out because, like everyone else in the galaxy, they wanted money. He handed a datapad to Vandar, and it was satisfying to watch his eyes widen when he saw the amount of credits listed. "If money is what you want…"

Vrook snatched the pad away from his fellow master and thrust it back at Ja'Taren. "The Jedi do not take bribes."

For the first time, Ja'Taren realized that the people who were the last chance for his granddaughter might actually deny him. "Then what the hell do you people want? Do you want me to beg?" He ground his teeth, pride making his voice rise. "I know that I've made some terrible mistakes in the past, but this is my last chance to make sure she doesn't grow up as a brainless twit or a useless junkie or worse. You people are supposed to have compassion, dammit!"

The Jedi did not answer and Ja'Taren couldn't tell if they were stunned into silence or if the rumors about their telepathic abilities were true and they were talking among themselves.

Finally, just as Ja'Taren was about to call security and have the whole sorry, judgmental lot tossed out of his penthouse, Vrook spoke. "It is important for you to understand that the Jedi are not some kind of day camp or boarding school for your convenience where you will come and retrieve your granddaughter when you feel like it. It is a lifelong commitment."

"You don't force your members to stay, do you?" Ja'Taren shot back.

"Well, no," Vrook admitted.

"All right then. When she comes of age she can choose. You will have had eleven years to convince her to stay."

Vrook glared at him, but the other two Jedi conceded his point with a nod. Vandar added, "It is most likely that you will not be permitted to see her. Attachments to familial relationships are discouraged. Whether or not you get to see her would be at the discretion of whichever Jedi master takes her as their padawan."

That didn't bother Ja'Taren. He would just have to make sure that she got a master that would decide in his favor. Besides, she was still a minor and if he ended up not being able to rig the system, he'd simply pull her out of the Order.

They took his silence as assent. Zhar continued, "What about her parents? They won't object to you handing their daughter over to us?"

Ja'Taren's voice was hard and cold from the shame of his own failure to raise his son as a decent man. "No. The only reason they brought Minuet into this world was because I threatened to cut them off if they didn't provide me with an heir. Once I made it clear that their monthly allowances will only continue if I get my way, their feeble attempts at objecting ceased. In truth, they will be relieved to have her taken off of their hands."

The three Jedi looked at one another. It appeared that Vandar spoke for all of them. "In that case, we will take your granddaughter in for training."

At the same moment Ja'Taren let out a relieved sigh, a high-pitched sob came from the cabinet. There was a crash as Minuet darted out from behind the cabinet, knocking over a flower-shaped lamp as she ran from the room.

Swearing, Ja'Taren rushed for the door, followed by the Jedi. He paused in the hallway wondering which way she'd gone when the Twi'lek master nodded to the left.

"You knew she was listening this whole time, didn't you?" he spat. Servants scrambled out of their way as they marched down the hallway.

Zhar at least had the grace to look shamefaced. Vrook didn't look even remotely guilty as he answered, "We thought since she was the one under discussion, she had a right to listen."

"Right. It had nothing to do with you using this as a wedge between us, you arrogant bastards."

Zhar held his hands up. "I assure you that was not our intention."

Furious, Ja'Taren nearly barked into his comm for the security staff to toss the Jedi out of his house when another spectacular crash came from up ahead. Dismay hit him as he stepped into the grand foyer that housed his priceless art collection. Irreplaceable antiques were scratched and dented. A beautiful bust of the first Queen of Naboo lay shattered in pieces on the floor. And Minuet had taken up one of the antique vibroblades and was slicing up a moss paining cultivated by a long-deceased Alderaanian artist.

"Minuet, put that down right now!" he demanded, as he mentally calculated the millions she'd cost him in less than two minutes.

Through near hysterical sobs and tears she screeched, "No!"

Terrified that she'd hurt herself or any more of his art, he stepped forward, grabbed the hilt, and wrenched it out of her hand. He laid the blade out of her reach before turning back to his granddaughter.

He took another step toward her. "Minuet..."

"You gave me away _again_," she said, swiping a hand across her tear-streaked face.

He put his hands on her small, trembling shoulders. "I didn't give you away. This won't be forever, just until you come of age."

"I don't want to go. I want to stay here with you." She swallowed. "If you let me stay, I'll be good this time, I swear."

Ja'Taren took her hand and led her over to a bench away from the Jedi. "This is the best thing for you."

"You're mad about the money I cost you. That's why you're sending me away."

He shook his head, wondering where she'd gotten that idea. "No, sweetling. I'm not mad."

"Then I don't understand." She looked so small and sad that it nearly killed him when she asked, "Why don't you want to keep me?"

His voice became thick. Ja'Taren had faced down senators, planetary governments, labor unions, and gangsters, but he couldn't help but feel powerless and lost when dealing with this little ten-year-old girl. Fumbling for the words that would make her understand, he said, "Minuet, I… I am not a good parent. I made so many mistakes with your father that you've had to pay for. I don't even know how to begin to take care of you the way you deserve." He gestured over at the Jedi. "But they do. They can take care of you in a way that I can't. Teach you how to use your special abilities."

"But I don't want to be a Jedi."

"I'm glad then." He dug his handkerchief out of his tunic and began to dry the tears off of her face. "Because you're not going to be one. You're going to run my empire with me."

The hope shining on her face twisted his heart. "I could do that now."

"I work fourteen-hour days. I travel across the galaxy and I can't take you along on every business dealing I have. You need stability, education, and training, so that when I give you your empire, you will be ready."

"But–"

"Minuet, the decision has already been made. You're going."

She didn't say anything as her shoulders slumped in defeat. He didn't need the empathic powers of the Jedi to know she felt hurt and betrayed. It was written all over her small face.

He cleared his throat and said, "Let's go up to your room and pack, okay?"

"That won't be necessary," Master Vandar said. "We will provide everything for her at the temple. It would be best if she left all her personal belongings behind."

He was about to protest over the ridiculousness of that request when he realized that Minuet, whom he'd expected to throw a tantrum, was simply staring at the floor in silence. For the first time he became worried. He'd never seen her this quiet and resigned before.

"We should go," Vandar said to Minuet. "Say your good-byes now."

Ja'Taren bent down to give her a hug, and instead of clinging and crying as she usually did, she just stood in numb silence. He hugged her anyway and kissed the top of her head.

"Be good, Minuet. Make me proud."

She looked up at him one last, silent time as though she hoped at any moment he'd change his mind. Instead, Zhar took her hand while Ja'Taren watched with a mixture of guilt and relief as the turbolift door slid shut behind her.


	2. Bitter Men

A/N: It should become obvious very shortly that my Exile is not the canon version Meetra Surik. The story is marked that way because that's the only tag for the Exile. So if male Exiles aren't your thing, you might want to turn back now.

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**Chapter One: Bitter Men**

When Canderous wanted to sleep on the _Hawk_, he went to crew quarters. When he wanted to eat, he went to the mess in the main hold. When he wanted to burn off some excess aggression, he went to the cargo hold to spar with the Echani. When he wanted to drink, he found the so-called leader of their little band—Nico Kor-Vas, the Jedi Exile—and they raided whatever stashes they could find and holed up as far away from the old blind witch as they could get on a Corellian freighter.

At least the witch wasn't a problem anymore; they'd left her corpse on Malachor V. The Echani and the others had departed on some other backwater world, full of noble intentions of restoring the Jedi Order.

But even without them, thanks to the fracking fire-suppression system, the only place Canderous could go when he wanted to smoke was the fracking swoop hangar. He leaned against the wall, cigarra hanging from his mouth, flicking the lighter in his hand and staring holes in the black scorch mark burned into the deck by a fire extinguished five years before.

The hangar door hissed open and Nico walked through. With his bloodshot eyes and his rumpled robe hanging off his shoulders, it looked like he just rolled out of bed—or more likely scraped himself off of the 'fresher floor. He stopped in the middle of the hangar and scratched his bare stomach. "Dammit, there'd better be something left to drink around here."

Canderous pulled the cigarra from his mouth and blew a stream of smoke at the deck. "Try the workbench."

The exile grunted and crouched, rooting through the crate under the bench. Prize in hand, he popped the seal and took a long draw. Then he pulled another bottle from the crate and tossed it in Canderous's direction.

"Drink," he demanded as he pushed himself to his feet. "And kill whatever the hell has crawled up your ass and is slamming into my senses. It's giving me a fracking headache."

"Stay out of my head and it won't be a problem," Canderous replied. But he opened the bottle and swallowed down a generous drink.

"I'm not in your head. You're broadcasting your misery like a ten-cred joygirl." Nico dropped himself on a nearby stool. "Which I don't get since two Sith assholes are dead, we're free of the Jedi, and we're on our way back to people who aren't so uptight that they can't appreciate a good fight. Seems like a win to me."

Canderous just grunted. "You check our position?"

Nico answered as he dug through the pockets of his robe and pulled out a pack of cigarras. "Six hours according to the bucket of bolts." He didn't bother with a lighter. Instead a spark arched in his cupped hand. He paused as he took a drag. "So what happens when Mandalore returns all triumphant? Feast? Booze? Women?"

Lungfuls of smoke chased Canderous's next drink. He dropped the cigarra butt to the deck and ground it out with his heel. "More likely lectures from tight-ass Clan members on neglecting my responsibilities."

Nico's brows rose. "Can't you just order them to shut the frack up? Or challenge them to a duel and make them shut up?"

"How the hell did you become a general?" Canderous asked before taking another drink.

"Because I'm that goddamn awesome." After a thoughtful pause and another drag of his smoke he added, "And because your people took out half of the chain of command by the time we joined the fight. We were Jedi and they were desperate. How the hell else do you think a twenty-two-year-old kid like Revan got control of the fleet so fast? She was brilliant, but if the Republic hadn't been getting its ass thoroughly kicked, there's no way they would have put her in charge.

"And me..." He shrugged. "I was one of the few who joined her that wasn't still in short pants, so they made me a general. I didn't have to worry about people questioning my orders. Even Republic soldiers shut the hell up and listen to the Jedi in charge when basilisk droids come barreling down. Peacetime is a different thing, of course, but I would have thought it'd be like that all the time for the Mando'ade."

"When all your warriors are Clan, everyone thinks they can question orders." Canderous glared at the bottle in his hand, as if the amber liquid had somehow doubted him. "And tell you how to live your own fracking life."

Nico grimaced. "That sounds as bad as the Jedi Council."

Canderous drank another long swallow, until the alcohol sat warm in his stomach. "Reuniting the Clans may have been the stupidest thing I've ever done." A glance at the blackened deck made him grunt again. "Second stupidest."

"Oh yeah? And what was the first?" The exile asked, pulling the bottle up for another drink, pausing as his lips split into a bitter smirk. "I bet it was a woman. It's _always_ a woman."

Moving to a large cargo crate, Canderous dropped onto it, fishing for the pack of cigarras in his pocket. He lit one, replaced the pack, and mixed another smoke-and-whiskey cocktail, this time smoke first. "Why'd you follow Revan to war?" he asked.

The Exile shrugged. "Lots of reasons. She had the greatest ass I've ever seen, and the rest of her wasn't too bad either. And Revan knew that real Jedi don't hide behind platitudes when the greatest fight in generations comes their way. Even with all of the banthashit she pulled afterward, she wasn't wrong about that." Nico's eyes narrowed, as he looked at Canderous for a few seconds before asking. "Why'd you follow her?"

Canderous scowled back. "The Sith were destroying the whole fracking planet. I didn't have a hell of a lot of choice." Slouching back on the canister, he drained several swallows from the bottle. "I should have left her the second we hit ground," he muttered.

"But you didn't. She probably looked at you with those big dark eyes and told you she was going to save the galaxy and you followed right along, just like Malak and me and every other man stupid enough to believe her." He jabbed a finger in Canderous's direction. "I bet you even fracked her. That's why you're so damn bitter, isn't it? Revan has a special talent for screwing over the men she fracks. She's probably doing it again to some poor asshole right now."

Anger and alcohol mixed to heat the blood in Canderous's veins. "I didn't just frack her," he spat. "We took vows." He took another drink before finishing the thought. "We have a son."

Nico's eyes widened, and then he threw his head back and laughed. The bitter sound rang throughout the swoop hangar. "No shit? No wonder you're so pissed. How the hell did she convince you to do something that dumb?"

"She didn't," Canderous growled.

"It was _your_ idea?" Drunken laughter continued as Nico shook his head. "You sorry son of a schutta. She must have had you wrapped around her manicured fingers even tighter than that dumbass Malak." His eyes narrowed in an appraising look and the laugher stopped. "Although that didn't stop you from having some fun with the Handmaiden, so maybe you're not completely whipped. Malak would have never had the balls to cheat on her."

"She left us. I don't owe her anything." Burning away any shame or regret had been a simple matter of alcohol and remembering his last conversation with Revan, when nothing he said was enough to make her stay, to convince her to let him come.

Nico shrugged. "Fair is fair. Besides, she's probably out there screwing around on you too. Being Mandalore has to open up a lot of possibilities. Wasting them all would be fracking tragic."

Another man's hands on Min's dark skin intruded on his thoughts during the day and his dreams at night. His hands clenched into fists. The burning tip of the cigarra seared into the flesh of his palm and he threw it to the deck with a muttered curse.

"We get off this ship, I'll probably be handed a list of Clan girls to knock up," he said. He knew what the gossip at the camp said. That it served him right for becoming besotted with a Jedi, for taking an old-fashioned vow. That now was the time for him to do his duty to the Clan, to spread Mandalore's seed and breed a new generation of warriors.

Nico threw his hands wide as his exasperation made his voice rise. "So pick a couple of the best-looking ones and forget about Revan. As long as they don't actually expect you to raise the brats, I don't see what the hell you're pissing and moaning about."

"You wouldn't," Canderous said before draining more of the bottle, then pinning Kor-Vas with a slightly bleary glare. "How the hell did you make it as a Jedi anyway?"

"Being a Jedi isn't a _choice_. I was taken from my parents when I was about four. Don't even remember them." He paused while he finished his smoke and ground it out on the edge of the workbench. "Is that what you're going to do with Revan's kid? Dump him on the Jedi after they rebuild? He has to be damn strong in the Force."

Canderous paused in raising the bottle to his lips and spat on the deck. "My son is a Mandalorian. He'll be trained as a Mandalorian. The Jedi try to dispute that, they'll have another war."

Nico snorted. "As if there are enough Jedi left to pick a fight. They've got bigger problems than your kid."

"For now," Canderous replied. "Someday some new Master will get a stick up their ass about Revan's son being on the loose. That's how the Jedi operate."

"It's the Sith you should be worried about. Do you have any fracking idea how huge of a prize Revan's kid would be?"

After draining the last of the whiskey, Canderous tossed the empty bottle into the scrap crate beside the workbench. "Let them try. I've fought four Sith Lords in the past five years. I'm the one that walked away."

A smirk split Nico's lips. "Really? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like one of them still has you by the balls, _Mandalore_."

Canderous narrowed his eyes. "You're about to walk into a camp full of your heavily armed former enemy. Don't piss me off."

"You're already pissed off. Have been the entire time I've known your sorry ass," Nico hopped off of the stool, half empty bottle still in hand. "Now I know why. Here." He tossed the whiskey to Canderous. "You definitely need this more than I do."

Canderous scowled after him as the former Jedi sauntered out into the corridor, but he took the bottle with him when he retired to crew quarters.


	3. Homecoming

**Chapter Two: Homecoming**

Mud stuck to Quinn Fett's boots but that didn't slow her brisk pace as she made her way through the Mandalorian camp in the drizzling rain. She could feel the weight of her clanbrothers' and sisters' gazes as she passed. It wasn't a surprise. News of Mandalore's imminent return had spread at light speed and uncertainty smothered the camp. The exception was Clan Fett's new chief who watched her with narrowed eyes. The medic paused to salute the young man before she passed, giving him his due, knowing that the moment she was out of earshot the ambitious little asshole would go back to stirring up as much shit as possible. Not that it was hard. Mandalore had given Chief Fett enough ammunition with his own actions. Quinn knew that the only thing that was keeping a lid on Chief Fett's success was the recent battle over Telos that had placated the other Clan Chiefs. But that wouldn't last for long.

By the time she reached the empty clearing, Ordo's former Weaponsmaster and current Clan Chief was already there, squinting up at the gray sky as though he could make the _Ebon Hawk_ appear by the power of his glare alone.

"So which one of us gets to go first?" Xarga asked her.

She shifted, doing her best to ignore the rain trickling underneath the collar of her armor and down her back. "Does it matter? He hasn't listened to a damn thing we've said since Revan left. I don't expect that to change now."

"I knew the two of them together would be trouble." A beefy hand lifted to wipe the rain collecting on his face. "I didn't know the two of them apart would blow everything all to hell."

"I'm surprised he's coming back. When he got on that ship, I didn't think we'd see him again unless he found her."

"Maybe he did." Xarga gave her a pointed look. "I can't decide if that's better or worse."

Quinn's golden eyes widened. The thought that Mandalore might be bringing Revan's body back hadn't even occurred to her. The whine of engines in the distance drew her gaze to the edge of the jungle canopy, but the frown on her face was deepened by old pain and grief of her own. "He already acts like he's the only one who's ever had a mate take a walk on him. If she's actually dead, he's going to lose it completely."

"He'll probably sell himself out to the nearest two-credit crime boss he can find." Xarga reached up to rub his right shoulder, site of an old injury he always bitched about when it rained. Which was nearly every day on Dxun. "I'm getting too fracking old for this."

Quinn glared at the man who wasn't even ten years her senior. "You don't get to be too old for this."

"I tried everything short of an honor duel to keep him from taking off," Xarga replied with an answering glare. "What the hell else do you expect me to do?"

She crossed her arms. The words were bitter ash in her mouth and a dishonorable betrayal of a friend who had brought the Mando'ade's second chance. She said them anyway.

"Find him another woman."

"You think I haven't thought of that?" Sighing, Xarga squinted up into the gray clouds that hid the approaching ship and muted the engine's roar. "Find me another woman who can best him in combat and I'll lock them in a room together until he comes to his senses."

"He left with a pair of Jedi women. Maybe he'll come back with one," she muttered before the sounds of the _Ebon Hawk_ drowned out anything she could say further.

The ship appeared, hovering over the clearing for a bit before finally landing. But when the _Ebon Hawk_ finally powered down and the landing ramp descended, the only person walking down the landing ramp next to Mandalore was the Jedi Exile. Quinn couldn't tell if she was disappointed or relieved.

When Xarga and Quinn saluted, Mandalore saluted back, then headed straight to the command bunker. Quinn wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not, but they all fell in step beside him, including the amused Jedi.

"Find quarters for Kor-Vas," Mandalore said to Xarga.

"Who or what the hell is Kor-Vas?" Xarga grumbled back, his respect for Mandalore confined, as always, strictly to one salute.

The Jedi's walk became practically a strut as he jerked his thumb toward his chest. "He's a former Republic General, Last of the Jedi, and Savior of the fracking Galaxy, that's who. He's hungry and wants a beer too."

"Supper's at sundown," Xarga barked, like a Weaponsmaster to a lazy child. "You want something before then you can go out and hunt cannocks."

"Aren't you just a ray of welcoming sunshine." He turned his gaze to Quinn, his smirk turning into a practiced leer that must have been used on a thousand other women. "I have a better idea. Why don't you show me where my bunker is instead?"

For all his sleaziness, it was the detached coldness behind the gaze that made her skin crawl. Quinn had been a medic since her thirteenth summer. She knew one of the walking wounded when she saw one.  
She snorted. "The time when I was young and stupid enough to take you up on that, Jedi, is long past."

"I thought Mandalorians were braver than that."

"All right," she said after a pause. "But we'll have to stop by my clinic first, so I can give you some shots for all of the diseases you're probably carrying. There is this one..." Quinn took her sweet time describing a technique that had him turning slightly green and scowling by the time they reached the command bunker.

"Mandalore was right," the Exile said with a glare that made satisfaction warm her belly. "You all are a bunch of tight asses."

Mandalore snorted and pushed the control panel for the bunker door.

"Your son's in the infirmary," Xarga announced, and Quinn could almost hear the silent "if you care" she was sure he added in his head.

Mandalore froze on the threshold, turning to fix Quinn with a hard stare. "Was he injured?"

She met his gaze, letting him stew for a several long seconds before answering. "No." Her eyes narrowed. "You going to come get him, Mandalore? Or are you taking off again?"

"I left to find battle," Mandalore snarled. "That's what Mandalore does. Tar will understand."

Quinn didn't buy it for a minute. Mandalore had found them a battle, true, but she knew it was just an excuse for him to hide from his responsibilities and his people, including his son. She placed her hands on hips. "You didn't answer my question."

"After supper," Mandalore said, turning back to enter the bunker. "I have work to do."

It was a start, she supposed, as she followed him and Xarga out of the rain. She frowned when the Jedi followed them too, but since Mandalore didn't object to his presence, Quinn held her tongue. She had bigger battles to fight today.

But not yet. Pulling her drenched braid over her shoulder, she decided to let Ordo's Chief take first crack.

As Mandalore removed his helm and set it on the worktable in the center of the bunker, she got her first look at what six months in space had done to him. The deep lines in his brow stood out more deeply. He was paler, even more so than she would have expected from the decreased sun exposure, and she wondered if he'd taken injuries while gallivanting around the galaxy. And who had treated them.

Xarga chose the nearest access console for his ground, then leaned back against it with his arms crossed over his chest. "Does this work include actually staying in the camp?" he asked.

Mandalore shot a steely glare in his direction. "Make yourself useful," he snapped, then pointed at the console. "Call up battlefield displays from the first battles of the wars."

From a moment, Xarga's brown eyes narrowed, searching for a reason to disobey, but then he turned and began tapping in commands.

Ghost white maps flickered into existence. Cathar, Serroco, Althir, and a score of other worlds all reduced to ash in battles that seemed a lifetime ago. Pride surged as she remembered the glory of the Mando'ade, but it was tempered by weariness when she thought of how few of her people were left now.

She blinked at the maps, feeling like she was witnessing the bones of her people being exhumed and asked, "Are we moving out, Mandalore?"

"Not yet," he replied. He leaned forward, resting his fists on the table as restless eyes flickered over the displays. "Send an order around camp. I want reports from all the older warriors, anyone more than a weapons carrier during the war. Everything they can remember about the commands that came down during the early campaigns." Gray eyes darted to Xarga and then to Quinn. "That includes both of you."

"Yes, Mandalore," she said as she nodded, before glancing over at Xarga and wondering what the hell this was about.

Xarga scratched his chin as he looked over the maps. "You looking for something in particular?"

Mandalore grunted, then shared a grim look with the Jedi. "Proof that a crazy old witch was just a crazy old witch."

The Exile paused halfway to bringing an unlit cigarra to his lips. "She could have been lying. Hell, half of what she said had to be complete manipulative banthashit."

A scowl crossed Mandalore's face. "She spoke the language all Force users are fluent in."

Kor-Vas barked out a laugh. "You have a point." He paused for a moment before lighting his smoke. Quinn's fingers itched for her own that she had left in her office at the clinic. But his next words made her forget about them entirely. "But what does it matter if the Sith manipulated your last Mandalore into picking the fight with the Republic? That shit's ancient history now."

"What?" Xarga snapped. "What the hell is he talking about?"

"A half-truth at best," Mandalore replied, still frowning at the maps. "But even half is too much."

Quinn felt like she'd just been punched in the gut. That all of the honor and glory from both their victories and losses might have been because of the whim of the _Sith_ made her blood burn with a rage that she hadn't felt for a very long time.

"He's right. We need to know." She shook her head to clear it before she spoke again. "But we also have more immediate problems."

Mandalore's eyes narrowed as he shifted his gaze to her. "What problems?"

Quinn punched up a schematic she'd spent all night smoking and drinking and cursing over as she put it together knowing damn well it was futile but still too stubborn to quit. The schematic showed the demographics of the Dxun Camp and the battlefields of the past flickered out, replaced by the battle that her people were now fighting, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

She crossed her arms and braced herself as she said, "A population problem, as in, we're not going to have a population if our people don't start breeding soon."

"Oh, frack me," Xarga muttered, covering his face with one hand. "Not this again."

"Yes, this again. And I'm going to keep raising hell about it until somebody listens."

In the back of the room, Kor-Vas laughed again. "Is this the part where you hand over the list of women for Mandalore to knock up? Because I have to say, I thought he was just kidding about that."

She glared at all three men in the room, finally resting her gaze on Mandalore. "I would if I thought it would do any good, but I already know that would be pointless."

He looked away, his jaw tightening, but Xarga just snorted. "Then why the hell are you bringing it up? You expect Mandalore to order a campwide orgy?"

"I expect for him to do what it takes to keep our people from going extinct. If he won't set the example for our people to follow himself, then he must convince others to do it in his place." She turned her gaze back to Mandalore. "Of the five Clan Chiefs in this camp, only one has living children. If they lead the way, then the rest of their Clans will follow."

Despite everything, the corner of Mandalore's mouth twitched in the beginning of a smirk as he looked back at her. "You want me to order the Clan Chiefs to have more children?"

Xarga took a step toward them both. "Oh, you've got to be shitting me."

Quinn gestured to the numbers flickering on the holo. "You're the one always bitching that you can't wait until Mandalore's son is of age so he can become Clan Chief, but there isn't going to be a Clan left for him if the birth rates don't increase." She turned back to Mandalore. "Of the six hundred and fifty-three Mandalorians in this camp, less then a hundred of them are under the age of eighteen, and only twelve of them have been born since you brought us to this camp. Of those twelve, most of them were born within a year of Revan giving birth to your son. Only one has been born this last year."

"So send out recruitment scouts," Xarga snapped. "I already raised four sons. And I'm practically raising yours," he added, stabbing his hand at Mandalore.

The clenching of Mandalore's teeth was almost audible. "You're not raising my son."

"Yeah?" Xarga retorted. "You think he doesn't slip and call me _buir_?" His other hand slashed through the air in denial. "The point is I did my part for the population a long time ago. You want to blame someone for our low numbers?" With a glare, he jerked his chin toward the Jedi. "Blame him."

The Jedi's smirk widened. "Hey, you were the assholes who picked the fight. Don't get pissy because we won."

"Recruits still need to sire children and so far they haven't." Quinn threw her hands wide. "_No one_ is having babies because this entire damned camp is wondering if it's going to fall apart. Clan Chiefs having children is the best way to prove that this camp is here to stay."

"I'd bet my armor you wouldn't be so quick to suggest it if you were ten years younger," Xarga groused.

"That doesn't make me wrong," she snapped back, squelching the sympathy that tied knots in her gut. As much as she loved children, that she was relieved she was past childbearing age was an understatement. "Look, I'm not asking you to take vows with someone. You don't even have to have sex if you don't want to, but dammit I don't see another answer."

"Of course not." Xarga crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm already Clan Chief. I've already been running this camp for half a year. Why shouldn't I repopulate the whole fracking Clan by myself? How many kids should I have this time? Fifteen?"

"Enough," Mandalore barked. "Reuniting the Clans was your fracking idea and now you're bitching because it takes work?" His glare turned from Xarga to Quinn. "I'll lead a zakkeg hunt in the morning. We'll feast tomorrow night. How are the ale stores?"

Like a petulant child, Xarga sulked for a moment before answering. "We've got plenty of ale."

One night of drunken feasting wasn't going to produce enough kids to save the clans, but at least it was a start. "The camp is restless. A hunt and feast will be good, especially if your son is at your side."

Mandalore just grunted, then tapped the command console. Quinn's chart dissolved, and the early battle maps popped back into place. "Dismissed," Mandalore added, almost as an afterthought.

Xarga saluted before storming out, jaw clenched in a scowl. Quinn followed. The door had barely shut behind her when he turned on her.

"Selling me out to stud?" he snapped. "That's your big plan?"

Thunder boomed across the sky and the rain became a downpour. She marched out into the muddy camp paths as she started the short walk to her clinic, throwing her words over her shoulder as she passed. "If you're going to bellyache like a stuck cannock, get your damn facts straight. My plan includes all of the Clan Chiefs, not just you."

"Yeah?" he sniped as he fell into step behind her. "And does your plan include a name for my new brothel? I need to know what to put on the sign outside my bunker."

"How about 'The Ornery Old Bantha' since you're too damned stubborn and blind to admit that I'm right?"

"You think I don't see it?" As soon as they ducked inside the clinic, Xarga made straight for the storage closet, yanked it open, and pulled out two towels. He threw one at her with one hand while rubbing down his face with the other. "I was a Weaponsmaster, dammit. Five Clans and we can't fill a children's barracks. But how about you go harass the warriors who aren't old enough for grandkids?"

She would have thrown her hands up if she hadn't been busy mopping off her face and squeezing the water from the thick auburn braid that curled over her shoulder. "This camp is full of middle-aged warriors thinking the same damned thing as you. Why the hell would the few young warriors we have do as I ask when the Clan Chiefs and seasoned veterans won't?"

"Because they're young and naive and have things like stamina and energy and a tolerance for banthashit." He glanced over her shoulder, and Quinn turned to see a miniature battle raging behind one of her exam tables. Mandalore's son crouched with two tiny armored figures in hand and then smashed them together with a cry of explosion.

Xarga sighed. "And they haven't already lost it all once."

Quinn told herself that scientific facts didn't care about personal pain and loss. The numbers on her chart were cold and hard; the logical solution obvious. Even so, all she could think of was the look on Xarga's face when the casualty reports from Malachor V had rolled in.

"Shit," she muttered, as she thought of her other clanbrothers and sisters in the camp. There wasn't one that didn't carry wounds from losing a mate or a parent or a child in the war. Not for the first time, she wondered if the Mando'ade was just too broken to rebuild. Frustration mounting, she tossed her towel aside and turned to her office. "We are so fracking screwed."

"No, we're not." Xarga threw his towel on top of hers before following. "Not if Canderous actually starts acting like Mandalore."

Quinn gave him another exasperated glare. Xarga's unshakable belief in his clanbrother's abilities was one of his most irritating and admirable qualities. She strode past Mandalore's son and her own son, Bran, who was trying really hard to look like he wasn't listening while sorting through the medical supplies. She gave them both nods and watched them salute Xarga before punching the door control.

She waited until the door slid shut before speaking again. "And what if he never does?" Quinn tugged at her braid hard as she unbound the wet strands. "I didn't just pull this plan out of my ass. You've trained almost all of the young warriors in this camp, and the veterans have watched you pick up the slack while Mandalore was away. They respect you, probably more than him."

As Xarga dropped into her spare chair, a sullen glower descended over his face, the one he always got when he felt put upon. "And how do you get from that to me hopping into the bunks of one of those warriors I trained? Some of these girls are younger than my sons would be."

Quinn leaned a hip against her console, crossed her arms, and glowered back at him. "Like you said they have a tolerance for banthashit. That should help considerably, I expect."

"Well, I don't," Xarga huffed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and muttering to himself before he looked up at her again. "An offspring match? At my age? I just let the mother call all the shots for the kid until he's old enough to train?" He grimaced. "Or she. That would be my luck. I'd finally have a daughter with some girl I barely know."

Quinn couldn't meet Xarga's eyes as she shoved off the desk and walked over to the observation window that looked out on the medbay. In silence she watched as Mandalore's son brought a soldier with a broken arm for Bran to fix. Her boy heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, but gave in and lifted both Ja'Taren and his toy onto the gurney to begin repairs.

"I know it's a lot to ask, but counting on Mandalore to get his shit together is a sucker's bet." Her hands tightened into fists. "I can't watch the Mando'ade dwindle away a second time."

Without another word, Xarga pushed up from the chair and started for the door.

She wasn't sure she wanted to know, but she asked anyway. "Where are you going?"

"To see how much whiskey I have. If I start drinking now, maybe I'll get lucky and the zakkeg will kill me."

Quinn cursed both Revan and Mandalore under her breath as she watched Xarga stalk out of the clinic. Then with a sigh, she joined the boys in the medbay and quieted her own whispers of guilt by burying herself in work.


	4. Warning Shot

**Chapter Three: Warning Shot**

The courtroom was hushed in appropriately solemn silence as the three panel judiciary council filed in and took their seats at the bench. The few other attendees, all on the petitioner's side of the closed courtroom, took their seats as well. The respondent's side of the room was unusually empty and the outcome had been predetermined weeks ago. Ja'Taren Allonis Revan had made certain of it.

Ja'Taren tried to quell his impatience as the bailiff droid and magistrates rattled off the preliminaries and shifted in the hard wooden chair, trying to find a comfortable position for his frail body. Since it was too unproductive to waste time paying attention to the Magistrates that he'd already bought and paid for, he switched on the console on the desk, connected to the Courscanti Intergalactic Commodities Exchange and frowned over the unexpected spike in the price of Gubashi crystals until his attention was abruptly brought back to the courtroom by a discreet cough of his lawyer and long time business representative, Sixt.

The Gossam attorney nodded to the Chief Magistrate. Ja'Taren followed his gaze, fixing an expression of proper respect on his face when the Magistrate spoke.

"We have reviewed your petition for custody of your great-grandchild. Given the evidence that your granddaughter has been officially declared dead, the unsuitability of Mandalorian customs to a healthy and happy child, the evidence presented of the mother's preference in custody and the fact that the father has failed to appear at this hearing, we hereby grant custody of Ja'Taren Revan Ordo to you, Ja'Taren Allonis Revan."

The Quarren banged the gavel and just like that, Ja'Taren was one step closer to his goal. As the Magistrates convened the court to the droning of the Bailiff droid, Ja'Taren shook his attorney's slender three-fingered hand.

"Nicely done."

Sixt snorted as he gathered his datapads. He spoke in his native language of trills and croaks. "As if there was any doubt about the outcome."

Ja'Taren shrugged and unfolded his aching body from the torture device masquerading as a chair. "True. But you've been wading through the red tape for almost six months to push this through." As a businessman who preferred to spend time actually creating companies and making money, it was a skill that he could definitely appreciate in those in his employ. Sixt been his front man for over twenty years, and his skill at following directions, quick thinking and cutting through the banthashit were priceless. The Gossam was very good at creating the impression of propriety and legitimacy, even when it was a complete lie.

"This was nothing. Getting your granddaughter declared legally dead – and quietly too – now that was a challenge."

The familiar ache of guilt and grief welled up in his chest. Arthritic fingers clenched around the datapad that contained the last communication he had with her.

"It was the only way we could move forward," he said, more to himself that to Sixt. A piece of him had died that day, and some ways, it was worse than when she'd 'died' the first time. When Darth Revan had died, it had been almost a relief. But when Minuet, mother of his great-grandson and his only living relative that wasn't a useless bloodsucker left to go die in the unknown regions on some damned mission, it was devastating.

Realizing that he'd somehow missteped, or perhaps just to cover his ass, Sixt quickly changed the subject. The wrinkles on his pebbly blue skin deepened with his frown. "You do realize that this is simply a piece of paper. It's useless unless the Mandalorians on the Duxn base suddenly decide to start honoring Republic law."

Followed by his herd of lawyers, accountants and bodyguards, Ja'Taren headed brusquely out of the courtroom – at least as brusquely as his seventy plus year old body would allow. His elegant cane, once merely carried for ornamental distinction, now supported more of his weight than he cared to admit. It tapped against the marble tile as he plodded along. Sixt fell into step beside him.

"They won't, of course," Ja'Taren admitted. "But we will need this after he is removed from the Mandalorain base by the agents I planted there."

They stopped in front of a luxury airspeeder, long, black and blasterproof. One of Ja'Taren's burly bodyguards that doubled as a driver opened the door and helped him into the vehicle. Sixt settled in next to him, while the rest of the entourage followed in their own vehicles.

Silence lapsed as they weaved through busy Courscanti air traffic. Ja'Taren had known Sixt long enough to realize that if he wasn't pestering him with one-thousand and one business details that needed his attention, something must be troubling the Gossam.

Irritated, because he had a pretty good idea what it was, Ja'Taren snapped, "Spit it out."

"Sir, I really think you're underestimating the risk of removing the boy from the base. I've read the file our research department compiled on your granddaughter's Mandalorian mate. He's an extremely dangerous mercenary-"

Ja'Taren crossed his arms over his chest as he cut his attorney off. "He is nothing but a thug with only a passing interest in my grandson. Once Tar is removed he will protest loudly and rattle his saber to save face in front of his gang, but in the end he will abandon the boy the way he abandoned Minuet."

Sixt looked doubtful. "And what if he doesn't?"

"Then I have contingency plans in place. If it makes you feel any better, think of this as just another hostile takeover."

"A hostile takeover involving Mandalorians with grenades and blasters," Sixt muttered.

Ja'Taren looked out the window. It didn't matter what it cost. It didn't matter that it might come to violence and bloodshed. This was his last chance to leave a legacy. To make things right. To build a dynasty. Failure wasn't an option.

But Ja'Taren didn't expect Sixt, who had seven children and five of his own grandbabies to understand. Ultimately, it didn't matter, as long as he carried out Ja'Taren's orders. "Are the preparations for my grandson ready?"

Sixt scrolled through his datapad. "Almost. With your generous donation to the Courscanti Boy's Academy, they've ensured us that once he is of appropriate age he will be admitted and placed in the same class as Senator O'bjinn, Councilman Uoolo and Chairwoman Ingri's grandchildren. Among others."

As the 'others' were the children and grandchildren of elite and powerful Courscanti businessmen and politicians, Ja'Taren was pleased. "Excellent."

"His room in both your Courscant penthouse and Alderaanian manner house have been prepared to your specifications. I have a dozen potential nannies with impeccable references for you to review. Once you narrow down the ones you prefer, I can set up interviews or interview them myself."

"No. I want to do it." Ja'Taren was determined that this time he was going to be involved in every single aspect. Not being more intimately involved in his son's and grand-daughter's upbringing had lead to tragedy. He was not going to make that mistake again.

"We have found several force users who could potentially train your great-grandson," Sixt continued. "We're in the middle of conducting background checks to discover any affiliation with either the Sith or former Jedi order.

"Very good. I want them thoroughly checked. There is no room for error. I am not about to lose another of my kin to either the Jedi or Sith."

"Are you certain you wish him trained? Is it wise?"

"Minuet would have wanted it. She believed that it was necessary." In truth, Ja'Taren didn't believe in the necessity of it. He was force sensitive himself, but never had the inclination or time to train. Still, if Minuet wanted it, he would trust her judgment. Besides, it would eventually give Tar an edge over his future business rivals.

For the rest of the speeder ride, they went over a dozen other arrangements for his grandson's arrival, including pushing through the custody paperwork on every planet Ja'Taren had holdings on, to arraigning for Sixt's youngest granddaughter to be Ja'Taren's playmate. Finally the aircar glided into Ja'Taren's sprawling penthouse compound.

As they both deboarded, Sixt started to follow him inside, but Ja'Taren waved him off. "Leave me. Make sure that I am not disturbed."

Sixt hesitated, but then folded his body into an acquiescing bow. "As you wish."

Ja'Taren's non-committal grunt and shooing motion, Sixt finally left him in peace. Alone, Ja'Taren wandered through his quiet penthouse. For years, only an odd servant and a few droids were his only company. It was heartening to know that it wasn't going to be that way for much longer.

When he reached his office, he crossed the priceless Iridonian carpet and sank into the chair behind his desk. After several failed attempts to be productive, he swiveled his chair around to the floor to ceiling window that ran the length of the room, brooding until the sun set over the horizon and he fell asleep.

It was a beep from his comm that woke him from his fitful dozing. A glance at the chrono told him that it was late in the evening, and he frowned at the offending sound, wondering why Sixt had allowed this comm call to reach him when he saw transmission code. Hot fury pushed away the last ruminants of sleep as he sat up straight and punched the comm.

The ghost white form of his worthless grandson-in-law flared to life. "You want something?"

Ja'Taren was so angry that it took him a few long seconds to find his voice. "You are a real piece of work, _Mandalorian_."

The Mandalorian ran a weary hand over his face. "You left seventy three messages to tell me that?"

"No. I left seventy three messages over the last _six months_ because it has been over a year since I've seen my great-grandson."

"We've been busy," the Mandalorian snapped.

Ja'Taren's lip curled into a sneer. "Yes. Gallivanting across the galaxy with that Enchani you've been fracking. I can see how that would be much more important than returning the comm call of your wife's only living relative."

If the Mandalorian was at all ashamed of his extramarital affairs, he kept it from his face. "What the hell do you know about it?"

"The _Ebon Hawk's_ pilot was quite talkative when given the right incentive." The old man's eyes narrowed. "I have to admit that you had me fooled. I should have known that you were just as worthless as all of the other men she's ever dallied with."

That the Mandalorian didn't deny the intelligence Ja'Taren had received from Atton Rand, was all of the evidence Ja'Taren needed to prove that it was true.

"I went looking for her, you useless bastard," the Mandalorian grated from behind clenched teeth, but Ja'Taren knew that the words were a lie. "What have you ever done besides sell her to the Jedi?"

"Not nearly as much as I should have, which is why I fully intend to honor the promise I made to her before she left and look out for her son. I want to see the boy as soon as possible."

The Mandalorian gave him a curt nod and said, "Fine. I'll comm when arrangements can be made."

The words were such a surprise. After being ignored for months on end, he had not expected the Mandalorian to agree to a meeting. Still, it was too little too late. An agreement to arrange a meeting changed nothing other than giving his operatives an easier chance to remove the boy.

"No. We will make arrangements now. I'm not waiting another five months before you can be arsed to return my comm calls."

"I'm his father," the Mandalorian snarled. "You'll see him when I say."

Ja'Taren arched an eyebrow. "First you dishonor my granddaughter and now you play games and keep me from her son? Do you have any shame at all?"

"Your granddaughter dishonored _me_ when she abandoned her vows." The Mandalorian glanced over his shoulder at something out of the range of the viewfinder, perhaps the boy himself, and lowered his voice and leaned closer to the screen. "Where were your lectures on shame then?"

"She didn't break her vows. She went to fight a battle which is something that man who claims to be a warrior should understand."

"Those vows included fighting together. Becoming Clan includes fighting together," the Mandalorian sneered. "Which is something a man who claims to care about family should understand."

"Enough." Ja'Taren jabbed one gnarled finger at the ghost white image before him. "You knew she had a tendency toward self-destruction and you swore to protect her from herself. You failed her and I will not have you failing her son too. I want access to my great-grandson within the week."

"Forget it," the Mandalorian snapped. "I'm not one of your corporate lackeys, old man. You don't get to dictate terms to me."

"I will not allow a glorified thug to keep me from the only family that I have left. Consider yourself warned, Mandalorian."

Ja'Taren cut the comm with a jab of his finger. It was extremely satisfying to watch Mandalorian's face wink out of existence. Any guilt that Ja'Taren might have felt for his plan to take Tar away from the man who had sired him was seared away by his righteous anger.

The boy was about to inherit an empire, and nothing, not even the thug who called himself Mandalore could stop it.


	5. Drunken Feast

**Chapter Four: Drunken Feast**

Halfway through a bottle of whiskey seemed like an excellent way to start a feast Xarga didn't really feel like attending. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the jungle canopy just as the looming arc of Onderon appeared over the opposite horizon. As fuzzy as the edges seemed, Xarga's stride didn't waver as he made his way to his Clanbrother's bunker. Mandalore's bunker.

"You cleaned up yet?" he called through the open doorway.

A grunt came from the shadowed interior. Xarga stepped inside and surveyed the litter of a miniature battlefield strewn with toy corpses. Canderous stood at his workbench at the far wall, polishing rag in hand as he scrubbed a stubborn stain of zakkeg blood out of his left gauntlet. He was dressed except for that and Mandalore's helm, which sat on the cot set up beside the workbench. Xarga took another swallow of whiskey as his gaze trailed toward the closed door of the bedroom, behind which he knew was a ridiculously large bed. He'd helped move the damn thing in preparation of Revan's arrival in camp. Now it was probably nothing more than a nesting ground for the jungle lizards that infiltrated every unused space in the camp.

He nodded toward the open door to the other bedroom. "Where's Tar?"

"Clinic," Canderous replied. He dropped the rag onto the workbench and snapped his gauntlet into place.

"You want to check on him before the feast starts?"

Gray eyes turned on him in a narrowed glare. "Is that a question or an attempt at instruction?"

Xarga shrugged as he took another pull off the bottle. "That depends on what you were planning to do."

Without another word, Canderous settled the helm of Mandalore over his head. He shouldered past Xarga and walked out into the darkening camp. Haunches of the slain zakkeg roasted over a large bonfire, filling the camp with the smells of smoke and meat. Canderous wove through the gathering warriors and acknowledged their salutes with a nod. Raucous laughter echoed across the clearing, and unless Xarga missed his guess, he wasn't the only one who'd begun a preemptive celebration. With the alcohol stores turned out for the feast, maybe Quinn would get her higher birth rates after all. The thought did nothing to improve Xarga's souring mood and he mentally prepared a long-suffering grouse to unleash on the medic, but when they arrived at the clinic, they found only Tar and Quinn's boy playing on the floor while her girl watched them, leaning against an exam table and looking bored.

As they entered, Quinn's daughter straightened and her son jumped up from the floor. They both saluted their Mandalore, as he'd known they would. Even with all her troubles on Nar Shaddaa, Quinn had done her best to instill proper conduct in all the children under her watch. Xarga felt a surge of pride when Tar looked up, then hurried to his own feet, chubby fist pressed to his heart.

"Have you had supper, _ad_?" Canderous asked, his voice muffled by the helm.

"Yes, Man'alore," the boy replied.

"Good," Canderous grunted. He had already turned to leave when he added, "Get to bed."

Tar's face screwed up in dissatisfaction as he looked down at the elaborate set-up of toy weapons he and Quinn's son had arranged. His gaze went to Xarga, but before he could do more than shake his head at the boy, the word slipped from Tar's mouth. "But..."

Canderous turned, his armored bulk dwarfing the child. "Are you questioning an order from Mandalore?"

To the boy's credit, his dark eyes went wide at the implication of such a transgression. When he shook his head, black curls bobbed against his cheeks. "No, _buir_."

"Then go." Mandalore's helm turned toward Quinn's children. "Make sure he does."

"Yes, Mandalore." Quinn's daughter saluted again, while her brother seemed shocked nearly to stupor to be handed such an awesome responsibility from Mandalore himself.

Canderous stepped out of the clinic and paced off toward the bonfire. When Xarga looked down at Tar, the boy looked up at him with pleading eyes, and he sighed. He could only imagine the trouble those eyes had gotten Revan into as a girl.

"Ten minutes," he said gruffly. He jabbed a finger at all three children to communicate the severity of any lapse in his instruction. "Not a second more."

Tar's little face split in a grin that was its own brand of trouble, and he immediately got back to shooting pebbles at a teetering tower of blocks. Xarga shook his head as he wandered out into the evening, but a slight smile curled the edges of his lips.

Half an hour at the feast was all it took to destroy his good mood. Everywhere he turned he seemed to stumble across female warriors, each one younger than the last. He could remember with perfect clarity the tufted ponytails and skinned knees of the youngest Ordo warriors who had come to him for training back before the wars. The rest of his whiskey and half a bottle of ale had disappeared when he found himself in front of the bonfire, trying not to picture stray strands of silver hair and the fine lines that had surrounded the eyes of the mother of his sons.

Not that staring at the fire in a drunken stupor helped; the trails of sparks weaving toward the sky merged with the stars until he could have sworn they were moving. But that would mean he was back on a ship doing something worthwhile with his life instead of rotting away in some sodden jungle. He took another long swig of ale, then turned his back to the flames to glare at the skull of the hulking beast that had failed to kill him.

"Thanks for nothing, you worthless brute." He added a kick to the zakkeg's jaw for good measure but only ended up with a sore foot.

Cursing and limping, he made his way back to the feast tables, making sure to find one that still had plenty of full bottles on it.

Quinn's drawl came from over his shoulder. "I have to hand it to the men of Clan Ordo. When you sulk you don't do it half assed."

Dropping into a seat, Xarga scowled and drained the rest of his bottle. "You want to bitch at the one who's to blame? I'll get you a mirror."

Quinn scoffed as she fished out a cigarra from pocket of her lab coat. "You couldn't find your ass with both hands right now, let alone a mirror."

"As long as I can still find my dick, right?" He tossed the bottle over his shoulder. It hit the ground and shattered with a satisfying sound. You didn't often get that on Dxun. Too much mud.

She sighed around the cigarra in her mouth. "I am far too sober right now to put up with your pouty banthashit. Just tell me where Tar is and I'll let you get back to cursing my name and crying in your beer."

After snagging another bottle with one hand, Xarga popped the seal and took a shorter sip. "I'm thinking of making a general announcement to the camp." He spread his arms wide, and droplets of beer splashed across his forearm. "That to my knowledge I have never, in fact, slept with Revan."

Quinn's brows rose. "Is this some roundabout plan for pissing Mandalore off and getting yourself killed? Or a statement of drunken wit about how you're not responsible for the boy?"

Xarga shrugged. "I'm multitasking."

"Clever. And here I thought the most immature Ordo I'd see tonight would be the three-year-old."

"Don't bother flattering me." He used the half-full bottle of beer in his hand to push aside the bottles on the table in search of something stronger. "You've seen to it yourself that you'll be without my services after this feast."

Quinn sighed, looking disappointed at the lack of post-feast sex. "Yeah, I figured as much." She took one last drag and tossed her smoke to the side. "So how long are you going to be pissed off at me? Is this tantrum tonight going to work it out of your system, or do I get to look forward to this being a daily occurrence?"

"That depends," he grumbled. "How attractive are the women you think I should breed with?"

"None of them should send you running screaming in the other direction." She hesitated for a moment, looking over at the fire before she met his gaze and asked, "You're going to do it tonight then?"

"Why not? Might as well not waste a perfectly good case of drunk."

Quinn reached for one of the unsealed bottles on the table, surprising because he knew she never drank on feast nights. Hot-headed warriors and free-flowing ale made at least one patch-up job inevitable.  
She brought it to her lips and took a liberal swallow. It didn't look like it improved her mood any. She opened her mouth like she was about to speak when her boy ran up to her, with a look of pure panic on his face.

Frowning, she put the bottle back on the table. "What is it, _ad_?"

The boy blurted the words out between gasped breaths. "We can't find Tar anywhere!"

"You see why I need to make an announcement?" Xarga muttered before taking another swallow of beer. "Did you try his bed?" he asked the boy. "'Cause that's where Mandalore told you to take him."

"He _was_ in bed." The teenager turned back to his mother, voice cracking in panic. "But then Tar wanted the toy he left at your clinic, and I went to get it for him. By the time I got back he was _gone_."

"Have you checked all of the usual places?" Quinn asked. "Xarga's bunker? The clinic?"

To each one the boy nodded and by the time he finished speaking, his older sister had appeared. Being a newly blooded and marked warrior from the battle over Telos, she managed to keep her panic to clenched fists and a worried look on a face that more than resembled her mother's.

"I just checked the mess," Marta said. "I thought maybe he was with the cooks, but he's not there either."

With a muttered curse, Xarga pushed to unsteady feet. "This feast may be the worst I've ever been to." He tried to focus on Quinn's son, though he was looking a little fuzzy around the edges. "Let's make sure he's not in camp before we get worked up about this."

Quinn nodded to her kids. "Grab a few of your friends and do a sweep of the camp. Start at the west end and work your way east." As they left to follow her orders, she turned back to Xarga and asked, "Which bunker did you put the Jedi in?"

"And why the hell am I supposed to know where everyone in the camp is, huh?" Scowling, he gestured vaguely to the north end of the camp. "Over there somewhere."

"He's a _Jedi_. Revan could sense where her boy was. He should be able to do the same thing, if he isn't already as shitfaced as you are. So pull your head out of your ass and show me where."

"Since when do Fett medics give orders to Ordo's Clan Chief?" he grumbled, but he wandered off in the direction of the extra bunkers. He stopped in front of a group of three bunkers and scratched at his scalp. Finally he shrugged and gestured toward the one on the right. "That one."

Quinn squared her shoulders and jabbed the comm button. She blinked in surprise when the door slid open almost immediately. The Jedi must have surprised too because his leer slipped for a moment. "Well, you're not who I was expecting."

"I need your help."

The Exile's leer returned, twice as strong as before. "Yeah, well, you already had your chance. I'm about to get laid, so you'll have to come back later if you want a piece of this."

Quinn crossed her arms. "Mandalore's boy is missing from his bed. Can you tell us if he's still in camp?"

The Exile snorted. "He's Revan's brat. He's probably hiding from his babysitters to give them fits. She used to pull that shit all of the time on the Jedi when she was a kid. You don't need me to deal with this."

He turned to go back into his bunker, but she grabbed him by the arm and ignored the scowl when the Jedi turned and shook her off. "Tar's not that kind of kid. If he's wandered off into the jungle by himself at night, it could be very, very bad. So I'm not leaving until you help me."

The Exile muttered curses under his breath but must have realized she was serious because he closed his eyes, his features smoothing out into something almost serene. A few moments later he was frowning back at them. "I can't sense him in the camp."

The drunken haze vanished in an instant, though Xarga wished it hadn't. Turning on his heel, he headed back into the camp, weaving past drunken pairs laughing or staggering off together. At the main table, Canderous sat alone and stared into the bonfire with narrowed eyes.

Xarga stopped in front of him and saluted. "Tar is missing," he said.

Canderous's eyes snapped to him. "What?" The hard gaze shifted to where Quinn was coming up beside him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Quinn saluted Canderous as well and then brought him up to speed. By the time Quinn finished, they'd been joined by the half-dressed Jedi and her empty-handed children. The boy stood at the edge of the firelight, making a valiant effort to put on brave face, but years as a Weaponmaster told Xarga that the boy had to be quaking in his boots.

Canderous pushed to his feet. The popping of the fire and distant laughter filled the space before he spoke.

"Organize search parties and head into the jungle," he said to Xarga. He started to turn away, then stopped. "Get each Clan Chief to take a full accounting of their clan before you start. See if anyone else is missing."

As he headed back toward the camp, Xarga exchanged a look with Quinn. "Where are you going?" he called after Canderous.

"I have a call to make," he called back.


	6. Implosion

**Chapter Five: Implosion**

Quinn crouched in front of the _Ebon Hawk_'s boarding hatch access panel, running her sonic tool rhythmically over the air scrubber's thousands of ridges, one by one. It was the sort of mind-numbingly tedious maintenance job astromech droids were built for. But the med bay was already meticulously organized by whoever used it last, and she had already scrubbed down and disinfected the common room. Besides, Quinn figured if she cleaned them all herself, she could keep busy through the entire sleep cycle and maybe even until they landed on Coruscant, because the last thing she wanted to think about was how she ended up on this damned ship to begin with.

_Daylight broke over the Dxun camp as the last search party returned from the jungle empty-handed. The leader of the squad gave Quinn a brief nod as he strode past her into the command bunker. She wanted to follow, but she hesitated for a few moments before the command bunker door. Her rank within the Clans meant that she should stay outside unless summoned. She pressed the door panel anyway and stepped inside._

_When her own Clan Chief saw her, she was rewarded with a glare. Quinn returned his gaze, preparing to defend her presence, but instead of ordering her back out the door, Chief Fett's lips thinned and he turned to face Mandalore. Quinn crossed her arms and settled against the back wall next to the rumpled Jedi Exile who, to her surprise, looked as grim as everyone else in the room._

_The captain of the last search squad conferred briefly with Xarga before saluting and leaving the bunker. Mandalore stood at the far console, his back to the assembled chiefs, and Xarga looked to him before running his hand over his face. Deep circles shadowed the space beneath his eyes. He looked every year of his five-plus decades._

"_That's it, Mandalore," he announced. "The searchers found nothing." Mandalore didn't reply, and Xarga's brown eyes narrowed. "Two of the newer recruits are gone as well. Formerly of Clan Vivut. They hadn't yet affiliated with any of the five Clans here."_

"_Where did they come from?" Mandalore asked._

"_They arrived on a shuttle from Onderon." Silence descended before Xarga broke it again. "Your orders, Mandalore?"_

"_I'm taking a team to Coruscant. Ten warriors from each Clan."_

_Quinn watched her Clan Chief's expression darken further, but it was Skirata's Chief, a tall, lean young woman who spoke and asked the question that was on the minds of everyone in the room. "Why Coruscant? If the recruits took your son, they could be anywhere in the galaxy by now."_

"_They're en route to Coruscant." As he spoke, Mandalore turned to face them. Deep lines creased his forehead and gray stubble darkened his jaw, but where Xarga looked haggard from the long, sleepless night, his Clanbrother exuded barely contained rage. "They're going to Ja'Taren Revan."_

_Chief Skirata's brows rose, while Chief Fett's lips twisted into a sneer. "You expect each of us to send ten of our warriors to help you with a __squabble__ between you and your son's Republic clan?"_

_Xarga stepped forward, putting himself between Chief Fett and Mandalore's murderous glare. "You know for a fact they've gone to Revan's grandfather?"_

_With obvious reluctance, Mandalore's gaze slid from Chief Fett to his Clanbrother. "He threatened as much the last time we spoke."_

_Chief Fett waived a dismissive hand at both Xarga and Mandalore. "Then this is Clan Ordo's problem."_

_For the first time, Bralor's Chief spoke, white teeth flashing against dark skin. His words weren't a surprise. Ties between Clan Bralor and Clan Ordo had always been strong, even before the war. "He took the son of __Mandalore__. The Clans can't stand by and let this insult pass."_

"_He took the unmarked whelp of a Republic__ Jedi__." Chief Fett spat the word out as an insult. His eyes darted to the Exile. "Go to them for help."_

_The Exile's drawl came from the back of the room. "Maybe he should if you're too gutless to send your warriors after one old rich guy."_

_Fett's fists clenched and Quinn wondered if her Clan Chief would be rash enough to challenge the Jedi to an honor duel right then and there, but Chief Beviin held her hand out to stop him before turning to Xarga. "Fett has a point. Both the Jedi and Revan's grandfather have claims on this boy that must be taken into account."_

"_Tar is the son of two marked warriors," Xarga snapped, red rising in his face. "How about we take that into account?"_

"_Revan's Clan mark means __nothing__," she declared, jabbing a finger in the direction of the Jedi Exile. "She isn't a warrior of the Mando'ade anymore than he is."_

"_I gave her that Clan mark," Xarga snarled. He stalked forward until he was practically nose to nose with the Beviin Chief. "Are you questioning my right to mark the warriors of Ordo, Beviin?"_

"_Mark who you like, but don't expect the rest of us to clean up your Clan's mess. You welcomed that viper into Clan Ordo knowing she was both Republic and Jedi, so you deal with the consequences."_

"_This isn't about Revan." Xarga's hand slashed through the air. "We all know how you feel about her. This is about the boy. Or are we letting the Republic bribe recruits and steal our children with impunity now?"_

_Beviin fell silent, and Quinn couldn't tell if it was because Xarga's words shamed her or if she was too outraged to retort. Chief Fett was not so silent. "If he's with his Republic clan, then he is in no danger. Clan Fett has better things to do than chase after Jedi half-breeds who didn't belong in this camp in the first place. Fett's warriors are forbidden to go." Quinn swore at his words, mortification for her Clan burning in her guts, as her Clan Chief turned his attention to her and added, "Especially you."_

_Quinn stepped forward with no hesitation. "As long as Mandalore will accept my blade, I'm going."_

"_I'll accept hers and nine others," Mandalore stated. "Or Clan Fett can leave this camp and be exiled from the reunited Clans for insubordination."_

"_Is that supposed to be a punishment?" Fett turned to face Quinn again as he declared, "Clan Fett is leaving to reclaim our homeworld. Anyone who disobeys my order will never set foot on Argent Dawn again."_

_It had been over a decade since Quinn had felt the wind over the rolling plains of her homeworld, and she knew that she wasn't the only one who was homesick. If Fett announced his plan and made their Clan choose, there would be some who would honor their oaths to Mandalore, but too many would leave with the Chief._

"_We swore our oaths to Mandalore. If you go out there and force a choice, it will tear our Clan apart."_

"_You swore your oath to your Clan too," Chief Fett snarled. "Clan Fett has no need for traitors. Anyone who stays is unworthy of Fett's mark on their shoulder and will be declared Clanless."_

_The word hung in the silence that descended over the room. There was only one honorable answer. Still, it took a few moments before Quinn could bring herself to say it because she wasn't sure she would be able to live with the consequences._

"_I'm staying."_

_Her Chief's face twisted, but he didn't look surprised. "You disgust me. You're the only medic in this camp. Clan Fett needs your skill to rebuild your homeworld and yet you stand with Ordo." His gaze flickered to where Xarga stood. "Just like you always do."_

_Infuriated by the insinuation, she snapped, "I stand by my oath to Mandalore."_

"_A Mandalore who is nothing more than a lovesick Jedi puppet," Beviin added. "He brings Revan into this camp, breeds with her, and her corruption spreads like a plague while our people stagnate and wither. Beviin agrees with your Chief's wisdom. We will leave as well."_

"_Then get the frack out," Mandalore spat, turning his back on them again. "You have one hour."_

_Xarga met Quinn's gaze, the look in his eyes a match for the roiling in her gut. She looked away, shame and despair paralyzing her, as the Chiefs walked out into the camp._

The sound of combat boots ringing against the metal deck pulled Quinn out of her brooding, and her fingers tightened around the tool. She wasn't the least bit surprised when Xarga leaned against the bulkhead beside her. "If you're really in that kind of mood, I've got armor that needs cleaning."

She couldn't summon up her usual snort of derision or a wry inquiry about whether his fingers were broken. Instead, she wiped her hand across her brow, smearing dust in streaks across her golden skin.

"Put it on the workbench," she murmured, as she silently willed him to go away. "I'll get to it when I can."

"You have gone crazy if you think I'd let you touch my armor, Fett."

Quinn flinched when he said her Clan name. "Is that why you're here? To make sure the Clanless one isn't losing her shit?"

Xarga's lips tightened into a thin line as he blew a breath out through his nose. "I'll probably regret asking this, but do you want to talk about it?"

"Obviously," she snapped, her voice rising for the first time. "That's why I have my nose buried in an access panel as far away as I can get from everyone else on this ship. What is there to say anyway? The Mando'ade is completely fracked now. It is what it is."

"This isn't the first time the Clans have split," Xarga replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "It won't be the last."

"It _will_ be the last," she said, her voice brittle. The tool went off with a snap as she turned to glare at him. "Don't you get it? Revan broke us all so badly that we don't even want to survive. All we've been doing the last few years is delaying the inevitable."

One of Xarga's eyebrows twitched upward. "So self-pity, huh? Well, if you plan on becoming an enforcer for some two-credit thug, you may want to avoid Taris. I don't think they've rebuilt the lower levels yet."

"Don't lecture me. I made my oath to Mandalore and I stand by it. I won't abandon my duty to the Mando'ade now anymore than I did after Malachor V." She turned back to the panel, her Clan tattoo flexing on her bare shoulder as she returned to her work and muttered, "But I sure as hell don't believe in it."

"You really had that much faith in your Clan Chief?" Skepticism laced every word of the question. "I always thought he was a devious piece of crap."

"He _is_ a devious piece of crap," she admitted. "But I thought he would be smart enough to realize that our only chance for survival is to keep the Clans united." Her face twisted as she jammed the tool into the filter with more force than was really necessary. "And here I was so worried about _birth rates_ that I couldn't see the real trouble brewing."

The boots at the edge of her peripheral vision shifted on the deck. "Having a thick-headed Clan Chief isn't your fault. Believe me, I know."

"It doesn't matter if it isn't my fault. They were my Clan. I broke my oath to them by staying. With them dishonored and exiled, it feels like..." She trailed off and just stared at the open access panel for a few long seconds before slamming it shut. "It doesn't matter what it feels like. It's done."

Xarga rubbed his eyes with one finger and thumb, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

She sighed. "Save the Clanmother nagging about how I should stop wearing myself out and get some rest. If I could sleep at all, I would."

"Not what I was going to say, but not a bad idea." Xarga straightened up, stepping away from the wall. "Look, I'm tired, you're tired, so I'm going to skip the big formal speech. You know you have a place in Clan Ordo anytime you want it."

Her Clan mark seemed to burn on her shoulder. She was tempted, but joining Ordo would mean erasing the mark that had defined her for more than three decades. "And you know that I can't accept it, but I'm honored all the same."

Xarga shrugged. "I won't twist your arm about it, but figure out some way to deal with this, all right? You're freaking out the Jedi."

So the Exile was still pissy about her cleaning his filthy ship. "Yes, not offending the delicate sensibilities of an oversexed Jedi man-child should be my number one priority," she said as she placed her hands on her hips, almost managing her usual wry drawl.

"When that man-child can rip a hole through the ship you're riding on, you might want to think about it," Xarga retorted.

"Fine, fine." Her gaze dropped down to her now still hands, feeling more than a little lost as she shoved the sonic tool into one of her pockets. "I'll try to find something else to do that doesn't freak out the Jedi."

"If you've been putting off getting drunk, now's your chance. We won't reach our Coruscant for another twelve hours." When Xarga extended a hand to help her to her feet, she took it, taking some small comfort in the familiar warmth and roughness.

"Wallowing in drunken misery while I make an idiot of myself somehow doesn't seem like it would help." She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Anyway, I'm a big girl, and you look like you're about to collapse on your feet, so stop hovering."

"On my way to my bunk right now." He nodded toward the port-side quarters. "You can join me if you like."

Surprised, her brows rose, but she moved toward the corridor that led to his bunk anyway. "Does this mean you're not angry with me anymore? Because I wouldn't blame you if you were."

"You weren't wrong," he said as he followed her direction. "Thirty years ago I might have been flattered."

The fine lines at the corner of her eyes crinkled. "I like to think that thirty years ago, I wouldn't have suggested it and kept you for myself. But I was pretty stupid when I was seventeen, and probably would have been screwing around with someone like the Jedi Exile."

Xarga snorted a laugh, shaking his head. "Back then you would have had competition anyway. I was already doing my part to expand the Clan."

She stopped in front of the door and turned to face him. "Which is why I shouldn't have put you, of all people, on the spot."

Xarga shrugged, not meeting her eyes, clearly uncomfortable with the expression of sympathy. "Forget it. The whole conversation's moot until we get this mess sorted out anyway."

She nodded and sighed. "And what a mess it is. Even when Revan's gone, she shapes our people."

Xarga shook his head. "She didn't expect this. If she had, she would have warned us."

"None of this would have happened if she hadn't left in the first place. She breaks us and remakes us and we fall apart when she's gone. The hell of it is, I don't even think she understands the power she has over us."

"It's not power over _us_," Xarga muttered. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his bald scalp. "We just have to get the kid back and then we can..." He trailed off in a snort. "And then I don't know what we do. Any ideas?"

She looked at him for a few seconds, mirth easing some of the tired melancholy away. "Considering the last plan I came up with, you're a brave man to ask me that, Xarga Ordo."

"Brave isn't usually the word you use for it, Quinn-" She winced again as he cut himself off. With more tenderness than he usually displayed or she usually allowed, he brushed a calloused hand against her cheek before pulling her into his chest. "Quinn."

She was stiff for a moment, before relaxing against his shoulder. "Well, you caught me in a generous mood," she murmured. "Enjoy it while you can because I'll be back to disrespecting Ordo's Chief tomorrow."

He grunted. "Yeah, I had a feeling."


	7. Penthouse Confrontation

**Chapter Six: Penthouse Confrontation**

Several locations across Coruscant's surface claimed to have the best view. The rooftop hangar of Fleet Headquarters was a bastion of military precision, the highest high-tech spacecraft lined up in rows straightened to the millimeter. From the Council chambers of the Jedi Temple, anyone seeking audience could look out over towers and traffic toward the curving horizon. Carth had never been to the highest levels of the Senate, but considering they could be seen from nearly any other point in the upper city, he imagined they boasted a similar view.

Ja'Taren Revan's office put them all to shame.

Carth imagined he was supposed to feel impressed, intimidated, awed, or some combination of all three, but he didn't. Seeing the planet from high orbit tended to put even the best city-top views in perspective.

So Carth felt no compunction about sprawling in his chair to reach across and touch the sleeve of the woman beside him. She jumped from her ramrod-straight posture, then offered a slightly sheepish smile in response to his questioning eyebrow.

"You all right?" he asked.

"I am," Bastila replied, but her smile shifted to a thoughtful frown as she glanced at the door behind them. "But it is not myself I am concerned for."

Carth frowned too, straightening up and craning his neck to see over the back of his chair. But to him, it was just a closed door; he was blind to whatever she could sense beyond it.

"It worries you that Tar's on Coruscant, doesn't it?" It worried her enough that she'd come to the upper levels of Coruscant, out in plain view. Plain view hadn't been a safe place for Jedi since Katarr, though Carth was hopeful that fact was on its way to changing.

"Worried is perhaps too strong. I was... surprised to sense him here without any word." Her shoulders twitched in a shrug, and her gaze returned to her folded hands. "Though there is no reason I should expect to be kept informed of his movements. We have no formal connection."

"Maybe not," Carth said, reaching out again to take her hand in his, "but you're his family. And you know Min would be the first to say it."

Bastila looked up with serious eyes and a rueful twist to her lips—an expression resigned to still-fresh sadness. "Min is not here."

Carth tightened his fingers around hers. "Well, we are. And we'll make sure Tar has everything he needs."

She squeezed his hand briefly until the door behind them hissed open. Then she jumped back like a chastised apprentice with a flush on her cheeks. Suppressing a grin, Carth sat up straight to face Revan's grandfather.

He crossed the room and nodded a curt acknowledgment before taking a seat in the chair behind the large desk. "Admiral Onasi. Knight Shan," he said slowly. He spread his hands out on his desk as though he was bracing himself. The old man's features were carefully neutral, but he couldn't keep the blend of hope and dread from his voice. "What brings you to see me? Do you have some news about my granddaughter?"

"I know no more of Min than when we last spoke," Bastila replied, "but she is alive. I'm sorry." Glancing at her, Carth didn't understand the apology until he looked back at Ja'Taren Revan and saw the old man's shoulders slump, not in disappointment but relief.

"Ah. Well, that is something, I suppose." He sat back in his chair and tapped a long finger against his lips before continuing. "You must be here about Tar then."

"We are," Bastila said. "I believe he's here on Coruscant?" The words sounded like a question but Carth knew that was just Jedi diplomacy. Having a Force bond with someone apparently provided an edge when it came to keeping tabs on that person's children. From Carth's perspective, that made Tar a lucky kid. No matter what happened to his parents, he'd never fall through the cracks. He'd never have to fend for himself or get dragged to some sadistic academy hell-bent on churning out Sith apprentices.

"Yes." The old man nodded to the door he had come through. "He's with the nanny at the moment and exploring his new bedroom. I thought it would be best to have a few days of adjustment before his sessions with the tutor starts."

"Then you intend this to be a permanent arrangement?" Bastila asked.

"Absolutely. The boy will be much better off here then being left to run wild in some backwater jungle camp."

Carth nodded, in complete agreement, and tried not to imagine how different his own son's life might have been if he'd had a wealthy relative to take him in. "That's generous of you, though I'm a little surprised Canderous saw it that way." Back on the _Hawk_, the Mandalorian couldn't go five minutes without mentioning his Clan and the Clan's honor, but when push came to shove, Carth's suspicions were confirmed—Ordo was all talk.

"He didn't, but I didn't let that stop me."

When Carth looked at Bastila, he saw the same small furrow of confusion that he could feel creasing his own brow. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Did Canderous object to Tar arriving on Coruscant?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. The Mandalorian sent me a message full of his colorful threats, but by then it was too late. I'd already removed the boy from the Dxun base and I have no intention of returning him."

Until he could see the (probably vastly expensive) woodgrain, Carth hadn't realized he'd leaned forward almost close enough to touch the desk between him and Revan's grandfather. He couldn't seem to bring himself to sit back. "You _removed_ him? What does that mean?"

The old man arched an eyebrow, looking at Carth as though he was a slow and disappointing child. "It means that I tired of the Mandalorian's games and took the appropriate action. I had agents infiltrate his camp, report on their findings, and bring the boy to me."

Carth could sit back then, almost falling against the chair as he covered his face with his hands. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"You took Tar without his father's permission?" Bastila asked.

"Knight Shan, it took seventy-three messages for him to return my comm calls, and he still wouldn't let me even meet with Tar. What do you think he would have done had I shown up at their base and asked politely for him to honor the court order granting me custody? Of course I didn't ask his permission. It was the only way to get that boy away from his unfit thug of a father."

"You didn't even..." The words trailed off as Carth swallowed down the all-too-vivid memory of not knowing where his son was before it suffocated him. "Does he at least know Tar is safe?"

Ja'Taren shrugged. "He's figured out that I'm the one who took the boy, which is the same thing."

Bastila's next words reminded Carth of the small boy involved, that he'd been too wrapped up in sympathetic feelings for the father (for Canderous of all people).

"Is Tar all right?" Bastila asked. "I imagine he's confused. As would any child be if taken from his home by strangers in the night." A brittle edge of ice entered her voice, and Carth watched with satisfaction as blue eyes sharpened.

"Children are resilient. He will adjust."

"He very well may. But if you believe he will forget that he was abducted from the only life he's ever known, then I believe you are mistaken. Some memories stay with children throughout their lives."

Knowing Bastila would not appreciate a public display of support, Carth resisted the urge to take her hand again, but looking at her, he couldn't help but see a shadow of the six-year-old girl left behind at the Jedi Temple.

The old man sat up straight in his chair, crossed his arms, and shot back, "What I believe is that Tar's life will be better here than with an indifferent and neglectful father who is too busy chasing Jedi tail to be raising his son. If you honestly believe he's going to miss the Mandalorian, then you are woefully naive."

"You're angry at Canderous for looking for Min?" Carth asked. "I'd have thought you'd be pleased."

"I would be, if he actually tried to look for my granddaughter. Despite what he claims, I know better. He wouldn't be sleeping with the Jedi who calls herself the Handmaiden if he was looking for Min."

"The Echani?" Carth asked as he glanced at Bastila. He'd mentioned the others with Canderous who'd taken part in the battle over Telos, especially the ones who were Force sensitive, which seemed to be most of them beside Canderous and the droids. "How do you know he's... that they're...?"

"I received the information from the _Ebon Hawk_'s pilot. When I confronted the Mandalorian, he didn't deny it." The old man leaned forward, resting his hands on his desk as he continued. "What do you think would have happened to Tar, if I had allowed him to stay? He already neglects the boy, and it would only be worse with this woman replacing my granddaughter."

The words "_Ebon Hawk_'s pilot" set Carth's teeth on edge, but he swallowed down his annoyance. "Look, nobody's going to argue that Canderous is a great father, but you can't just kidnap a child from a Mandalorian camp. If you had the court order, then you should have let the authorities handle it."

"Are you truly naive enough to think that Republic government would go into a Mandalorian camp to enforce this court order? Or that if I had shown up on Dxun and demanded my rights to the boy that they would have honored it?" He waved a gnarled hand in an arrogant dismissal. "No. I had no choice but to act as I did. And now, the Republic authorities will get their chance to handle the situation as soon as the Mandalorian and his thugs arrive."

"What?" Carth demanded.

"You believe the Mandalorians are coming to reclaim the boy?" Bastila asked.

"According to the saber rattling message he sent earlier, I'd say that is his intention. But don't worry, I've already informed Republic security as well as increasing my own mercenary force. We are in no danger, and once he realizes that he cannot reach the boy, he will have no choice but to return to his jungle moon."

"Are you kidding me?" Carth struggled to keep his voice below shouting. "You really think Canderous will just... that he'll run back to Dxun with his tail between his legs?" His fingernails pressed deep into his palms as he shook his head. "You're going to start a war, you know that? You really think Min would want this?"

For the first time anger flashed across the old man's face, tightening his lips and narrowing his eyes. "Minuet would want her son to be raised by someone who actually gives a damn about him. Tar is a prize to the Mandalorian, nothing more. Just like my granddaughter was. Once he thumps his chest enough to satisfy his own ego, he will leave."

Before Carth could open his mouth to retort, Bastila stepped in. "I think you underestimate the depth of Canderous's feelings for Min and his son," she murmured. "Regardless," she continued in a more brisk tone, "what has been done cannot be changed. What is at issue now is how to proceed. An open, violent confrontation serves no one, least of all Tar."

"Then the best use of your time would be convincing the Mandalorian to return to his jungle moon, because I am not giving up the boy."

"And you're planning to what? Give up a multibillion-credit empire to care for a three-year-old?" Carth asked. "Or are you planning to dump him on the Jedi like you did Min?"

"Carth," Bastila admonished quietly, though whether because of his tone or because of the implication that Tar didn't belong with the Jedi, he wasn't sure. She turned to Ja'Taren instead. "His training will become an issue and more swiftly than you might anticipate. It's part of the reason I have been so attuned to him. Regardless of the state of the Order, I gave my word to Min that I would help Tar develop his talents. And Canderous had agreed."

_Eventually_ was the unspoken addendum Carth knew damn well she was thinking, even without the Force.

The old man's back was ramrod straight. "I have no intention of giving Tar to the Jedi. But I see no reason why he couldn't be trained here. It should be a useful asset when he inherits my business empire."

"Wow," Carth remarked. The annoyance he'd been feeling at the old man's arrogance bubbled over into anger. "How many generations of your own family do you plan to burn through to feed your own ambition?"

"Carth," Bastila began again, but this time he cut her off.

"From the memories Min did get back, it sounds like she's damn lucky to have forgotten most things about her parents," Carth continued. "And we all know how well things turned out for her. What is it exactly that makes you think you're remotely fit to serve as that little boy's guardian?"

The old man crossed his arms over his frail chest and narrowed his eyes to slits. "What makes you remotely fit to judge me? From what I understand, you've had your own spectacular failures as a parent. So perhaps you should clean up your own affairs before deciding to meddle in mine."

"My son's a Jedi Knight." Or he would be if the Order hadn't been all but destroyed on Katarr. Still, Carth knew Jolee was doing everything he could to keep Dustil on the right path to training. And to keep him safe. He knew how hard it was to entrust his only child to someone else's care, even when he was grown and even when he knew it was the right thing. He couldn't imagine having that decision forced on him.

"Only because my granddaughter risked her neck at that Academy on Korriban. If it weren't for her, he'd still be a second-rate Sith."

Carth felt his eyes narrow. "If it weren't for her, he'd still have a mother."

"Who would be speaking Mandalorian right now. That is, if she'd survived a Mandalorian conquest of your homeworld. And then, of course, there is you. Tell me, Admiral, do you think you'd be standing here right now, if my granddaugher hadn't risked everything and joined the war? Or would you have died making a heroic stand against the unstoppable Mandalorian war machine?"

"Probably," Carth said. "And I would have died gladly to protect my family. But if you think I'm going to fight the Mandalorians to defend your right to take children from their fathers without any kind of... without even trying to work things out the right way..." Carth slashed a hand through the air in front of him. "It's not going to happen."

"You mistake me, Admiral. I haven't asked you to fight anyone for me. Coruscant security has already been notified and are on standby along with my own mercenaries. The situation is well under control. We do not need your help, and in fact, I would prefer it if you stayed out of the way."

"Our presence might help defuse any standoff that might occur," Bastila said. She sounded way more reasonable than Carth thought the situation warranted. "At the very least I'd like to see Tar, to evaluate the progression of his abilities if nothing else."

The old man spoke after a few moments of silent consideration. "You may see Tar on one condition. That the admiral keeps his venom about my granddaughter to himself." He turned his gaze from Bastila to Carth. "Once I was dismayed to discover that it was the Mandalorian she had taken up with and not you. But I've come to realize it's because of ungrateful men like you, who have forgotten everything that you owe her, who grasp at the mistakes she made while she was risking everything to protect what you couldn't, that she is crippled by her guilt.

"Men like you are the reason that I lost her. I will not have you poisoning her memory to her son, and admiral or no, I will not hesitate to have you tossed bodily from my penthouse if you try. Is that clear?"

"You really think I'd try to explain to a three-year-old that his parents are war criminals?" The man was lucky Carth didn't have the Force, or he'd probably be choking on nothing right about now. "I made my peace with Min and count her as a friend and I'm here out of concern for her son. If that's not enough for you, then..." He struggled for a moment to find appropriately diplomatic words before shrugging. "Well, I really don't give a damn if that's not enough for you."

"Yes. From the way you've disrespected both myself and my granddaughter in my own home, that you don't give a damn is obvious." He twitched his fingers at the door in an obvious dismissal. "Go take your look and then get out of my home, because you are not welcome here."

Carth supposed he should be grateful they hadn't been bodily removed by one of the many security agents lurking throughout the building, but grateful wasn't high on the list of his current feelings. He got to his feet and stalked to the door with Bastila close behind him. After a few paces down the hallway, however, he realized that he had no idea where he was going and stepped to the side to allow her to lead the way to Tar.

"This is crazy," he muttered as they passed through hallway after hallway, most of them decorated with elaborate art that probably cost more than he'd make in a lifetime. "From both of them. It's a diplomatic and military nightmare and neither of them seems to give a damn."

"The situation hasn't escalated to violence yet," Bastila replied. "Perhaps a peaceful arrangement can yet be reached."

"Canderous back down from a fight?" Carth snorted. "That'll be the day. I would have said a compromise would have to come from Min's grandfather, but I think I see now where Min got her stubborn streak from."

"He truly does care for Tar's well-being," Bastila replied, ever the diplomat. "That much was clear."

"I know," Carth sighed. "That's what makes this such a mess."

They walked past several more cross-corridors and then into a long hallway with less décor and more security cameras. They even had to pass by an armed guard, though he just nodded them through. Carth hoped that meant that Ja'Taren Revan's orders were relayed swiftly and not that security was lax.

Bastila finally stopped before a nondescript door. She hesitated and looked back at Carth. "He's nearly asleep."

"We'll just peek in." He stepped in front of the door control panel and let his hand over the button. "I used to me a pro at this," he told her with a smile.

He pressed the button once, let the door slide open a hand's-width, and then tapped it again. Inside the darkened room, a large bed dominated the space. As he watched a very small figured wiggled out from the middle of the bed and turned toward the line of light spilling into the room.

"Mama?" a little voice called.

"I guess I've lost my touch," Carth murmured. He tapped the door button to let it slide all the way open, then stepped back so Bastila could go in. She hesitated for a moment longer before walking in and siding on the edge of the bed.

"No, Tar. I'm Bastila. Do you remember me? I visited you in the camp once."

The boy nodded. "You feel like Mama."

If Bastila was as surprised as Carth by that response, she hid it well. "Do you remember her?"

"She had a feeling. I remember the feeling." The boy crawled over to sit beside Bastila. "Is she coming home soon?"

"I… don't know, Tar. I wish I did."

"When can I go home?"

"I'm afraid I don't know that either. But for now you're going to stay here with your great-grandfather. Do you think you can be patient while he and your father discuss the matter?"

"_Buir _is mad," the boy said solemnly.

"You can feel his anger? Does it trouble you?"

Tar shook his head. "He's always mad."

"Well, we will do our best to help him stop being mad."

"Okay," Tar murmured while making no attempt to stifle his yawn. "Can I sleep now?"

"Of course," Bastila murmured back. "I apologize for disturbing you."

As Tar struggled through the sea of blankets to return to the center of the massive bed, Bastila did her best to help him, lifting up the thickest of the covers and then replacing it over the boy's small form. Two pangs of loss stabbed through Carth's chest—one for himself and all the moments like this he'd missed with Morgana and Dustil, and one for Min and the moments she was missing now. If the Sith truly were a threat somewhere out there, then he knew she was doing the right thing, just like he'd always hoped he was. But that was poor comfort while lying in a cold bunk staring at a metal bulkhead.

The door hissed closed behind Bastila, and she let out a quiet breath. "He's strong, isn't he?" Carth asked.

She nodded and tucked a stray strand of hair back in her braid. "Regardless of the outcome of this current situation, a very talented Jedi will have to take charge of his training."

Carth decided to take advantage of the empty hallway and placed his hands on her waist. "Someone like you?"

A slight flush tinted her cheeks and she lowered her eyes to his chest. "I meant someone with more experience and wisdom."

"You handled him pretty well just now," he said. He ducked his head to meet her eyes. "He trusts you."

"Because of my connection with Min."

"She trusts you, too." He gently lifted her chin up with one hand. "You're a very trustworthy person." He kissed her once, swift and soft, knowing she'd object to anything more than that in public.

Sure enough, when he pulled back, her blush had darkened. "Carth, the cameras," she chided him. But to his surprise, she pushed up on her toes to kiss him again before stepping out of his embrace and turning to head back down the hall. Maybe being forced apart by the attacks on the Jedi had bothered her as much as it had bothered him. He smiled as he followed her, grateful that no matter how big a mess they might be in, they'd at least get to deal with it together.


End file.
